Hyperfocused
Zoomed in
Drilled down
On point
Pushing through
Balls out
Circling the wagons
Taking the lead
High demand
Pumped up
Stressed out
Now…
Zoom out…
Still riding a little rock through outer space
No walls and a little air stuck to the sides
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Whispers of Heavenly Death”)
Mason jar tin lids marshaled row on row
Fruit and summer sealed against time
Shelved categorized labeled
Ready for tragedy a stockpile delight
Winter creeps then rolls then roars
Choking Polaris and the Pleiades
Starvation is waiting for us
Impatient
From deep within the pantry shadows
A lid turns
A tock reports the broken seal
Death can wait
We are having dessert
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Darest Thou Now O Soul”)
Watch carefully this creature
Fragile Sisyphean automaton
Blind to its pheromone leash
Eating sleeping birthing dying
Yet free
Free to find Janus in a step
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XXIX: To Think of Time”)
The madness the crazy
Seizes and releases
Grabs and hides
Shallow darkness obscuring
Intentions unintended
Pulls observations
Disparate
Forces them together
Unholy union
Unorthodox unconventional
Something new
Shocking
Creation ultimo
Ab initio
Never ex nihilo
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Transpositions”)
Tie dye sparkly technicolor dreamscape
Many-armed crucified zen smile prophet
Primitive mystical mixing on a color wheel
Limning from a pinhole all that is and me
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XXVIII: The Sleepers”)
Adventure is never gilded on the fly
From shore the horizon is magic and song
As soon as home is lost behind
Noncommittal dreams flicker ahead
Misery blooms on decaying hope
Blue escape beckons from the deep
No postcards no glory no songs
Until that timid shore noses above the surf
Sending gulls racing before sails like confetti
Calling the aliens ashore
Pulse and adrenaline serve inevitability
Carving bravery out of rough hewn despair
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XXVII: Prayer of Columbus”)
Behind the controls and looking out
Something steers that lumbering mass
It’s ship is become wobbly and slow
Eyelids painted exotic colors fly wildly
Last remnants of heady days and dreams
Sure the sails slouch and the bulwark sags
And the hull waterlogged bulges
Yet inside a little captain ready eyes sharp
Scans the horizon and tucks the spyglass
Wrestles the helm and sends down an order
We need fuel
Tacos sound good let’s have those
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XXVI: Passage to India”)
Lumbering halting starting stopping starting
Turning realigning examining evaluating
Extrapolating interpolating modeling
Computing iterating requesting
Waiting receiving interpreting
Warning alerting reacting
Downloading loading
Decompressing
Reinitializing
Adjusting
Ready
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XXV: Proud Music of the Storm”)
Puffing chests standing straight
Everything fuzz and cataracts
At the helm of a ship in need of steering
The Quixotes turn about
Searching for familiar troops
Buzzing lines expectant
Seeing giants everywhere
Massive arms waving
The bold Quixotes point the charge
Bugling affirmations
Our greatest threat mocks us
We must not cower before this enemy
We must not shun the fight
Charge charge for our salvation
Satisfied with their bold leadership
They congratulate each other
And feel their way home
Unable to see if the giants fell
Or how the troops faired
Or if there were any troops
-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Prairie States”)
Every wall a mural
Bright and brooding
Frameless and flowing
Into and onto the next
Rendered in relief
Forming and fading
Eluding and evolving
Sight ephemeral
-T. Weeks
(A response to “My Picture-Gallery”)
Life Immense 